


Disgrace

by JadeLupine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Choking, Daddy Kink, Dominance, F/M, Fingering, Flashbacks, Grinding, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Rough Sex, Sad, Sex, belt, wild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:19:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He did not cry when he killed Will.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Will loves how Hannibal is so collected, so cool, and how every word is like a caress from him, but inside, he is wildfire, and roughness and forest-leaves. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Disgrace

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted another angst/porn thing, and I tried to make it well written. Please do read until the end~ xo

He did not cry when he killed Will.

He did not cry at his funeral, in which his body was brought in, pale and waxy, merely a shell of what it once contained. Hannibal turned away when it was laid in the room, he did not have a taste for this sort of world with its unplanned deaths, no, he only had a thin, anthropological interest in the buzzing happenings of this mortal world. Then, he brings himself to look at Will; how his rich hair catches the light, and he thinks, lights should be for illumination.

(you ate his heart and it tastes of him)

“Alana.” He says, and he puts his knotted, rough hand on her heaving shoulder. Her pale skin reminds him of light and lightning. “Alana.”

“Oh, Hannibal--- He was so close, he was so close.” Alana’s tears had a fresh, frothy sound to it, the insatiable taste of pure grief. She means that Will Graham was so close to discovering the killers that so plagued them, he was so close to bringing prestige to the FBI, and he was so _close_. Alana’s back heaves further and her face is wet with tears, red and flushed.

(you tore the knife through him, he was ripped in half)

“Alana, we must---“ Hannibal starts, and he hopes Alana wouldn’t cry on his coat, it would be terribly unseemly.

“Doesn’t it affect you?” She asks softly, when they are outside in the humming silence. “Didn’t you love him, Hannibal?”

Did he love him?

It was a perturbing question to this man of science, did he love Will Graham with his nauseous stomach and his nightly screams, with his lonely eyes and his heartening kisses, and did he love him? Was it _love_ toward the man with the shadow stained cheeks, the thin, buried sparks of excitement within his nervous self, his crass-woven plaid, and Hannibal, wonders if Will Graham was worth it.

 

_“Hannibal.” Will asks in his voice that was more broken glass than tinkling bells. “What do you think upon the discovery of impossible things?”_

_“I delight in it.” Hannibal looks up from his drawing, and smiles at the man whose eyes bloomed bright. “What have you in mind, Will?”_

_“I don’t know.” Will comments, and there are two empty cups of tea and two books next to him. It is an oddly British habit, this tea drinking, but Will decides that it is his habit. His glasses are crooked as he frowns at Hannibal, scratching the back of his neck although it did not itch. “I never know. Other people are so…”_

_“Mundane?” Hannibal suggests, and there is a wry curve to his lips. “Odd? Perilous?”_

_“I was thinking more along the lines of hard to understand.” Will grins, obscurely comforted. He is losing time, more and more, and he wonders if there is actually something wrong with him, or whether he was merely getting old._

_“You make it hard for you to understand. You taste emotions like cheap sweets, Will.” Hannibal pulls a face, and puts away his drawing._

_“What were you drawing?” Will asks eagerly, maybe it would be Winston. He had always asked him to draw Winston._

_“I was drawing an angel.” Hannibal hastily shuts the drawing up, and stares at Will._

_“Hannibal.” Will says again, and his voice is ripping at the seams. “I have discovered the impossible.”_

_“What is it?” Hannibal asks, his eyes glinting. “What is your revelation Will, do you need me to call the Nobel Prize board?”_

_“Yes. Tell them I love you.”_

There is a slight tinge of distaste in the depths of him when Alana forces him to accompany her to Will’s grave, a week later. It is a plain, grey headstone, with plain words, for a plain man. Alana stands at the grave, and she puts her flowers where flowers are meant to be put, and she cries a respectful tear. Hannibal closes his eyes, and thinks of Will. He does not miss him, no, no. He merely thinks of him, and how they have accrued so many unaccountable debts between them that it is now merely a blurred line between Hannibal, and Will.

“Do you miss him?” Alana asks, her hair a little askew.

“I don’t know.” Hannibal replies, and it is a lie. He does not miss Will, no, in no way does he miss Will. But. But, he thinks of him often, but thinking is not the same as missing. “I don’t know, Alana.”

She comes to him, and Hannibal thinks, maybe she wants to cry on my shoulder, but she comes even closer. Hannibal grasps her tightly by the waist and pulls her even closer to him. Everything is quiet, in a still, snuffed sort of way, and Hannibal does not think. He presses Alana to him, and he places a kiss on her lips, she tastes like tears and softness, and she kisses back, he opens her teeth with his tongue. She stares up at him, and her eyes are full of tears, one even drips down her cheek and he licks it off.  They stop kissing, and Alana can feel the hardness in Hannibal’s groin, he is aroused, and she thinks desperately, so is she. He is tenting his silken pants, and he presses his erection against her, she closes her eyes, and begins grinding into him. 

(if dear will only knew, his heart would surely break in two)

They only rub against each other, and Hannibal can almost taste the wetness of her cunt, he licks her neck to compensate, and they are undulating, gyrating against each other, fully clothed. She comes, even though they are not having sex, even though she was clad in four layers of clothing, and still, she comes with a shudder and a gasp, and blanching of the cheeks. He takes a minute longer, his stiffness still rubbing against her cunt, and finally he is sated, he comes into his pants as if he were sixteen, but he is stony faced and cold, there is only an airy grunt to show that he has climaxed. He pulls away from her, and thinks, this is so much worse than her crying on his suit, she made him ejaculate into his pants like a _child._

“Oh God, Oh God, Hannibal, look what we did.” Alana is frantic and tears are sliding down her face, she is gesticulating wildly with her hands. “Look what we _did_!”

“What?” He asks, merely out of curiosity, and then he remembers, oh. Alana had forgotten that they were at Will Graham’s graveside, that bare plot of earth with a headstone and a body. They had both achieved climax where Will lay sleeping and dead, they had grinded against each other in a most uncouth manner. It did not matter to Hannibal, no, of course not. But Alana, however, she seemed to be sobbing openly.

(will even wept, but you cut him into pieces, didn’t you?)

“It is all right.” Hannibal says, but he does not put his arm around her. “He is dead.”

She looks up at him with a mixture of disgust, and the disgust warms him slightly.

“We can never mention this to anyone.” She composes herself, and she ignores the fact that her cunt was tingling, and it was so---. “We will never do this again, do you understand?”

“Clearly.” Hannibal says, and smiles for her benefit, because he has no intention of doing so.

“Oh God, Will’s grave...we…I can’t believe we. Don’t you feel _anything_?” She asks Hannibal desperately.

(you breathed in the smell of his pain)

“He is dead. Alana, he will not be standing like a watchdog at his grave, he is dead.”

She breathes, and decides not to talk to Hannibal again. He is a little sad, he thinks, at the ruination and culmination of such a friendship as theirs, by a simple act of shared orgasm. But this was Alana, and the guilt of having achieved physical pleasure at _Will’s gravesite_ would haunt her forever, the guilt would ravage her from inside out. Hannibal was left standing at the gravestone with a tight feeling in his chest, and a sticky feeling at his crotch.

 

 _“Do you have to wake up so soon_?” _Will asks softly, and his breath tickles Hannibal’s hair. “Stay with me for a while, love.”_

_“I have to go be a doctor, Will” Hannibal says, and stretches, remembering that they are both naked under the tangled sheets. “Necessity calls, I must help the populace, and tell them they are not insane.”_

_(they think, oddly, at the same time, of a night thick with stars and kisses under starlight)_

_“Oh, I see. Oh well, then, doctor, I have a problem.” Will said slyly, and grabbed onto Hannibal’s hand, bringing it to his groin, and Hannibal slid his hand down Will’s aroused cock._

_“It seems to be a large problem, Mr. Graham.” Hannibal muttered silkily, and removed his hand. “I should refer you to another physician.”_

_Hannibal sits up slowly and savors the taste of the morning, and quietly smiles to himself. It was a quiet smile, Will noticed as he lay sprawled on the bed next to him, but it was in Hannibal’s nature to do everything quietly. He stretches and makes to get out of bed, and Will watches him, his back with the muscles, and the hair, and it seems so Hannibal, this dignified back, that Will almost laughs. Will’s lanky arms go around him from the back, anchoring him to the bed, and, Hannibal thinks, they seem to anchor him to earth too. He can feel Will smiling, even though he was behind Hannibal, he could feel the childish grin on a mouth that was not made for smiling._

_“Not now, Will.” Hannibal tries on a smile of his own, and he knows that even if Will could not see it, he could feel it. “Later. Tonight.”_

_He rises carefully from the bed, and he disappears into the bathroom, where he ponders upon his physical appearance in the mirror. He looked fit, he looked well, and the arbitrary stubble, and the rough, worn feel of his hands only heightened his appeal, he thinks vainly. He wonders how Will sees him, or even if Will sees him, in between fits of trying to save the world. He is abysmally out of practice with the concept of romance, and the thought wounds him._

_He steps into his shower, and as always, it was a temperature closer to boiling than to anything else. He took pride in the heat of his showers, he cherished it animalistically, even a little childishly, how his shower would steam up the room the moment it started. He steps under the hot, forceful stream, and he hisses a little, tilting his head up. The water, and all it’s heat massages his scalp like a woman from Thailand, and the water runs down his body, making the hair on his chest flatten, and he runs a hand over his face. The heat is pleasant, almost overly so,  and Hannibal wonders if he should partake to the guilty pleasure of masturbation when a voice interrupts his thoughts._

_“You should drop the soap, Hannibal, it would make for a lovely prison scenario.” Will grins. Hannibal blinks the water out of his eyes to behold the man who shared his bed, he was completely naked in a heartbreakingly beautiful way, and Hannibal could already feel his cock stiffening at the sight of Will so beautifully pure, grinning in front of him. The younger man steps into the shower with Will before recoiling in horror, hissing._

_“Do you try to boil yourself every day?” He asks, easing himself into the stream to stand incredibly close to Hannibal, their erections were touching in a relentlessly pleasant way. Will put his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders and their mouths meet wetly, Hannibal’s tongue probing Will’s mouth, and it gave him a strange sort of excitement to run his tongue along another man’s teeth, tasting so different from his own. Their hands are almost everywhere now, and Hannibal grasps onto Will’s nipples, pinches them slightly, and Will feels (oddly) vaguely honored. Hannibal brings his mouth down to bite on Will’s neck, hard enough to leave a mark that Jack would notice, and he wonders, what would happen if he bit too hard. He ponders what would happen if the blood started spurting out from the wound, and Will lay bleeding from his throat, and the thought only intensifies him, he is ready to try, but no, he thinks. Too dangerous for the delicate balance they had._

_Hannibal turns off the shower so that they are still standing there, their still biting and touching and licking, and they are so wet. The sight of the water droplets standing out on Will’s smooth skin is infuriating to Hannibal, and he licks them off his shoulder. Something snaps in him, an urge, or an impulse, he does not know (and frankly does not care) as to what it is, but it makes him slam Will Graham upon the shower wall. There is the wet smack of flesh on marble and Will groans softly, sounding somewhat delighted. Hannibal digs his nails into Will, normally he would not mind, but today it angers him to see Will grin like he was, and he bites him, roughly on the shoulder. He pushes the man down, where he almost eagerly accepts Hannibal’s erect cock into his mouth, stroking his own slowly, hoping the mixture of the heat of the room, and this newfound violence in Hannibal would not make him climax too soon._

_Will runs his tongue along Hannibal’s cock, and brings a hand up to play with his balls, and he slightly grazes his teeth along the top of Hannibal’s foreskin, which only made the man (oddly animalistic as he was today), grab Will’s hair and push him down further onto his cock. Will complies, and takes the entire length, it goes down his throat but he does not gag, and he starts moving his head up and down, sometimes letting his teeth run along the shaft, which made Hannibal take in those sharp, breathless inhales that stiffened Will’s cock further._

_Hannibal grabs Will by the shoulders and pulls him up, leaving scratches in his skin, and Will prepares to find somewhere to sit or lie, and spread his legs open, so that Hannibal could fuck him, and stare at him while he did so. But today, Hannibal does not let go of Will, only grasps harder, he knows there will be bruises._

_“Bend over.” He growls in Will’s ear, and Will looks at Hannibal, confused for the second before Hannibal bodily turns him over, and pushes him down so that Will is bent, he braces his hands against the wall. Why does he not want to face me, Will thinks, and he is overwhelmed by the power Hannibal seemed to exonerate, he wanted it, he wanted him. Hannibal thrusts a finger into Will’s hole, not gently, like he usually prepares him, but roughly, painfully so that it makes Will cry out. Hannibal reaches around Will and grabs a bottle of Vaseline, and coats his hand liberally with it, before admiring Will, still bent over, and gasping softly, in awe of what Hannibal would do next. The doctor notices a pair of pants hung on the towel rail, and he goes to them, unhooking the belt from the pants before bringing it to Will, who was still bent over, hands braced on the wall. In almost a flash, he brings the belt around Will’s neck and tightens it, holding the loose end in his hand, his other working his cock. He pulled the belt harder around Will’s throat, and there are slight sounds of wet coughing from Will, and Hannibal inhales the taste and smell of him, and he wishes that he would be in this position forever._

_“I told you not to leave your clothes lying around.” Hannibal growled quietly, and tightened the belt a little more, and his cock is painfully aroused at how Will tries to gasp for air. He loosens the belt, and sees that Will’s cock is standing straight up, almost parallel to his stomach, even though his hands were not touching it._

_“Sorry.” Will chokes hoarsely. “Sorry.”_

_“Sorry---what?” Hannibal asks again through gritted teeth, pulling the belt tight around Will’s neck, and hissing in pleasure._

_“Sorry, Hannibal.” Will’s voice is almost muted, and he gasps at the air he would not get._

_“No.” Hannibal says, his voice louder, and he pulls the belt tighter until the buckle almost cuts into Will’s throat. “No.”_

_“Sorry….” Will doesn’t know, and he can feel the intenseness in Hannibal, so he says the only word that comes to mind. “Sorry, Daddy.”_

_“Oh---“ Hannibal clings to the word like a mother, and he lets go of the belt, does not notice it clatter to the floor, does not notice the ring of bruises, red and new, around Will’s neck. He puts two lubed fingers into Will, and he thrusts them in and out quickly, , and as soon as it feels too easy, he is using three fingers, he is fucking Will with his fingers, and the younger man is arching his back, moaning through closed teeth. Hannibal takes his fingers out and applies more Vaseline to his cock, it has a pleasant feeling to it and it is almost tenderly that he inserts his member into Will’s hole, but after the initial entry, Will’s muscles tighten around him, and he gives a suppressed moan of longing before thrusting angrily into Will, moving in and out gracelessly, his hands clawing red marks on Will’s already red shoulders. He can see the ring of darkening bruises, and he can hear Will almost-sobbing as though from far away, but he is focused on his cock thrusting in and out of Will, and how Will still seemed erect, almost obscenely so, even as he was under such pain._

_“Never leave your clothes lying around again.” Hannibal knew he was only using it as an excuse but Will tightens in fear._

_“No. S-Sorry, Daddy.” He mutters, and Will finds that he loves calling Hannibal that, and for a second, he ignores the pain that is Hannibal wildly thrusting behind him, and he grabs his own cock in his hands. He is so close as Hannibal is pumping in him, and there is a tingling like wildfire at his groin, and it is a dark ghost of ecstasy that slides through his brain when he comes, his seed hitting the wall so close to him, and he is smiling through his tears. Hannibal achieves climax with a long, drawn out groan and he breathes harshly, his seed spent in Will and he pulls himself out, still breathing heavily._

_Will turns around, his face wet with tears, his shoulders covered in scratches and his neck ringed by bruises, but still, he is smiling. He smiles because Hannibal’s seed is inside him, he makes believe it feels warm as it trickles down the inside of his thighs, he feels red and sore, but he smiles. He wants, he wants so hard to wake up beside Hannibal again, drown in him, and spend his life beside his buzzing warmth. He loves how Hannibal is so collected, so cool, and how every word is like a caress from him, but inside, he is wildfire, and roughness and forest-leaves._

_“Are you all right?” Will asks, because Hannibal is still breathing heavily, and the noise echoes around the bathroom. In way of reply, Hannibal draws Will to him, and kisses him slow and deep, longingly and maybe a little sadly, pouring tenderness as if to make up for the wildness, he does not stop. Will kisses him back, and they are comforting and loving, and the rough sex is forgotten except for the ache in Will’s neck, but as they kiss, entwined, Will thinks that maybe Hannibal aches along with him._

_And for him, that must be enough._

_It’s got to be._

Hannibal stands before his mirror and stares at himself, dressed fit for the opera, and he is approving. His hair is neatly brushed back, his eyes twinkle genially, and there is a peculiar sort of charm inside him, for which he was eternally grateful. He thinks quite a lot of himself, and he hates to be disappointed. He adds more gel to slick his hair back, and he practices a smile in the mirror, but something prods at him with vehemence that surprises him.  There is something wrong.

(will moaned and screamed but you held the knife into him)

He frowns. He looks perfect, immaculate, not a hair out of place, but something screams at him, wrong, wrong, wrong. His hands curl into fists and he places them on the mirror. He runs his fingers through his hair, purposefully distorts the style that took hours to create. He rubs his fingers against his scalp so that his hair hung in front of his face, deranged, odd, and his face, in the dimness, seems hollow and empty. Am I going mad, he thinks, as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood that drips down his chin. He shudders, for madness was solely Will’s topic.

He realizes what is missing, and he wishes he hadn’t. He knows that he had been perfect, at least, until he messed his hair and gave his eyes the hollow, pained look. He was perfect, but what was not, was the absence of Will’s lithe, pale hands on the lapels of his suit, straightening his bow. What was _missing_ was Will’s wry face that popped up behind his, and offered far from insightful comments to his appearance, what was missing was the absence of the feverish smell mingling with the awful aftershave.

(you killed him so coldly, and he was so dead)

And suddenly, he finds it increasingly difficult to breathe.

He does not go to the opera that night, but instead, sits at home with his wild hair and his open shirt, clutching a glass of wine. He stares at his drawing of the angel he had made earlier, and he stares at it and stares at it, something primal and primitive shrieking inside him. He does not notice the night darkening and darkening, no, he only has mind for the loyal and trusting Will Graham, who was now cold and buried. He does not feel his eyes getting wet, or the tears falling gently down his face now, and ruining the drawing of the angel. The wineglass falls out of his limp hand as he thinks of Will in black and white, and he falls asleep that way.

He wakes at dawn, to a drawing of an angel that once had Will Graham’s face, but was now marred with blurs.

He did not cry when he killed Will.

But he cried when he _died_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you liked it!!!  
> Please do, do leave your comments and reviews, because I absolutely adore reading them!


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